


at the close of day, by snowfall

by phantomlistener



Category: Belgariad/Malloreon Series - David & Leigh Eddings
Genre: Family, Gen, Introspection, post-Belgariad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28134375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomlistener/pseuds/phantomlistener
Summary: King Belgarion's family gather to celebrate Erastide on the Isle of Winds.
Relationships: Polgara & Belgarath, Polgara & Garion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	at the close of day, by snowfall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [muggle95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/muggle95/gifts).



Erastide on the Isle of Winds was certainly not an understated affair. There were at least six different birds, golden and crisp and steaming straight from the oven, tender Sendarian beef, and more vegetables – steamed, roasted, fried, and boiled – than could reasonably be required even for a large group such as this. Back on Faldor’s farm, the labourers had cheered and grinned when Polgara had presented them with a feast not one tenth of the triumph that had emerged from the kitchens of Belgarion of Riva. It reminded her more of the grand meals she had partaken of in Vo Wacune, in Erat, and with Beltira and Belkira in her youth.

All long gone now, of course.

The icy chill of the night air, dotted with the beginnings of snow, was a welcome contrast to the heat of the banqueting hall. Polgara had come to the roof in search of a moment’s calm, had forgotten Garion’s tendency to follow her around like a lamb even now that he was crowned King of Riva.

 _Especially_ now that he was crowned King of Riva.

“What was it like?” Garion was asking. “Bringing up my parents and grandparents and great-grandparents all the way back to the very beginning of my line?”

Polgara looked at him. Despite everything that had happened he still looked painfully young when he was unsure of himself, always so serious when he asked about his past. Always so desperate for the scraps of information she passed his way. Sometimes, just sometimes, she missed the little boy who had clung tearfully to her in the middle of the night after a bad dream with no care for whether she was mother or aunt or something so far removed she could barely articulate the relationship. She considered her words carefully, all too aware that he would store them up like lights against the fog of his past. “Lonely,” she said eventually. “Small children are all well and good, but they grow up so very fast.”

“Why didn’t Grandfather—”

“That’s enough of that,” she said, more sharply than she intended, tamping down the echoes of age-old arguments that rang in her ears. “Shouldn’t you be with your guests?”

“Yes, Aunt Pol,” he said dutifully, but she could see the curiosity in his eyes, and with a sharp pang she was reminded of another boy – of so many other boys – with sandy hair and determination in their eyes, climbing trees too tall for their short limbs and diving headlong into lakes too shallow to keep them from concussion.

“I’ll be down soon,” she reassured him, and he smiled. The heavy oak door swung closed behind him.

She sighed, and her breath condensed in the sharp winter air. “You can come out now,” she called in a voice usually reserved for errant children, not taking her eyes from the city. Candles flickered from every visible window, a celebration of light from darkness, the creation of the world by the gods millennia ago. “Father.”

A shape detached itself from the shadows and coalesced into the white-robed form of Belgarath. “Polgara,” he said by way of greeting. “Fancy seeing you here.”

The roll of her eyes was almost audible. “Would it be so hard to come and talk to me like a normal person? Do you really feel the need to sneak up like a spy rather than just saying hello?”

“I wasn’t spying on you,” Belgarath said gruffly, trying without much success to hide his tankard of ale behind his back. In the end he huffed out an annoyed breath, set it on the battlements in plain view as if daring his daughter to make a comment. “I came for a bit of peace and quiet. Garion and Ce’Nedra can be a little—”

“They can,” allowed Polgara, her rich voice thawing into warmth. “It was a good meal though, didn’t you think?”

“Nice to have an Erastide meal prepared by someone else,” Belgarath remarked with obvious pleasure.

“You’ve never _once_ lent a hand, Old Wolf,” she reminded him, but there was no edge to her voice. “In fact, as I remember it, you were usually drunk before the food even got to the table.”

“Ah yes, a family tradition.”

“I don’t think it’s a tradition if you’re the only one who does it.”

“One immortal life counts as at least ten generations of mortal ones,” he protested, the twinkle in his eye belying his belligerent tone. “By that logic, it’s _age-old_.”

“By that logic, so are you,” she retorted.

Belgarath laughed, and there was affection in his voice, for once not veiled in argument. “Oh Pol,” he said, stepping closer to her on the icy battlements. He closed his eyes briefly and the snow flurry deepened, tiny intricate snowflakes melting on his hair and beard and on the dark blue of Polgara’s cloak. “There,” he said with satisfaction. “That’s better.”

They stood in silence for a moment, Belgarath sipping at his ale and Polgara staring dreamy-eyed out into the snow.

“All this grandeur,” she said eventually, and her eyes travelled over the white-covered rooftops and battlements of Riva. “I’d almost forgotten, you know, exactly how it felt to be anyone other than _Aunt Pol_.”

“You’ve always been a great deal more than that,” Belgarath said bluntly.

She turned to him with a raised eyebrow, and challenge flashed in her grey eyes. “Don’t you dare underestimate what it took to bring up those endless generations of troublesome young boys,” she said tartly. “ _Aunt Pol_ had plenty to deal with while you were swanning around amusing yourself for centuries.”

“Sounds like it was a real hardship,” he replied mildly.

Polgara sighed, and the sharpness was again gone from her voice. “It wasn’t so bad,” she said. “I enjoyed it, eventually.”

“But you were _glad_ when Brill found you on Faldor’s farm,” he said accusingly, waggling a bony finger in her direction. “I know you, Pol, remember? The quiet life has never suited you.”

She looked piercingly at him, her retort held on the tip of her tongue ready to eviscerate, but their fragile truce held, and she deflated with a sigh. “Alright Old Wolf,” she said, her gaze drifting out to the grey horizon. “I was relieved when the waiting was finally over – was that what you wanted to hear?”

“It’ll do for now,” Belgarath said smugly.

“You’re impossible.”

“That’s also—”

“A family tradition?” Polgara finished for him. She was looking at him with a peculiar sort of affection, irritated but undeniably fond. “Yes, I suspect it is.”

“Well,” Belgarath said, peering sadly into his empty tankard. “I should probably, um, check on the children.”

Polgara turned back to the view, where the snow was swirling thicker and faster than before. “The children are fine,” she said absently, made the snowflakes in front of her swirl in a practised circle with a single gesture of her hand.

“Shall I send Durnik up?”

The snowflakes were dancing above her outstretched hand now. “I shall be down shortly,” she said, and her voice was strangely regal.

“Well,” said Belgarath. “I’ll just—”

Polgara turned to him then, let her arms fall to her sides and the snow succumb to the pull of gravity. Her eyes were sparkling, and she didn’t speak, but Belgarath seemed to understand her nonetheless.

“Don’t stay too long,” he said warningly. “I plan to be too drunk to be thawing you out if you freeze solid.”

Polgara’s lips twitched with amusement. “Fill your tankard, old man” she said with a musical laugh. “I’ll be down to fish you out of the barrel before long.”

Belgarath lifted his empty tankard in a mock salute, the tower door closing behind him with a solid thud, and Polgara turned back to the view, leaned her arms uncaring on the icy battlements. Looking out at the snow, at the flickering candles in every window, she smiled.

All was as it should be.


End file.
